


Pull Me Close, Reel Me In

by onetoughcookie



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 17:43:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10904262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetoughcookie/pseuds/onetoughcookie
Summary: Four times the team helped Peter through panic attacks, and the one time he had to push himself through it alone. But he's never alone, not really...





	Pull Me Close, Reel Me In

_One_

He doesn’t know what triggers it; one moment Peter is tinkering aboard the Milano, the bridge empty, and the next, he is ripping himself from his seat, stifling a scream with a sharp intake of breath, slamming against a nearby wall, sliding to the floor, a hyperventilating heap.

He doesn’t remember where he is; his vision swims in _baddeathpanicdreadfearescape_ as his hands shake, lungs constrict, eyes water, panic dousing the flames of fear as it begins to drown him.

Then Rocket is in front of his feet. Snapping his furry hands. Paws? The question pulls Peter from the assault.

“Look at me, Peter.” Rocket grabs his hand. Peter instinctively pulls away, a spasm of _baddeathpanic_ and he’s throwing his head back against the ship’s wall, biting down so hard his teeth grind and jaw aches and _he can’t breathe--_

“Quill!” Rocket’s snapping again. Peter’s eyes fall to him. “ _Look at me,_ kid. Eyes. On. Me, Peter.” And Peter does. He stares at Rocket. His steel gaze, unmoving, grabbing hold of Peter’s flailing one, soothing without saying a word.

Gradually, the panic pushes back. The doomsday ebbs away, fading into a dull, throbbing headache that settles in the base of his skull. Energy leaves his body, he’s sagging back against the wall, breathless, skin clammy and windpipe raw, but he can breathe.

He doesn’t bother to speak. Only hangs his head. Rocket moves from in between his knees and to his side, sitting down next to him. Not talking, no smart ass cracks of humor, no insults, no slurs - just, sitting. Being. Grounding Peter.

It’s enough.

 

_Two_

Drax stands a bit too close for Peter’s liking. Yet, he ignores it. Waits patiently for his food as he passes thirty units to a Vttri behind a counter. Two bags are traded, pleasantries exchanged, and then Peter and Drax are walking through the streets of Hollendhyydlle, back to the Milano under the light of the stars.

Drax sparks a conversation of his culture, an interesting but monotone tale of the ancient rituals and Peter hums, listens faintly, comments once or twice, but otherwise stays impartial.

He looks at the stars, the black of the night and the whiteblue of the cosmos. It’s always taken his breath away. His eyes trail down to the houses, the buildings that line the streets - shoe shiners, book stores, restaurants and bars, the simplicities that stood on Terra could be found anywhere, it seemed, and Peter smiles.

They pass an alleyway and Peter’s smile falls. It’s a stupid thought, he knows, and he tries to catch it. Tries to bring the nostalgia back, the pureness back, but instead, it persists, because what _if_ Gamora dies in the darkness? What _if_ they fade into the background, disappearing forever? What _if_ they become the shadows? What _if_ they leave? What _if_ he’s alone? _Forever?_

And he drops. His knees hit the pavement and his hand hits his chest, tugging at his shirt, trying to alleviate the swell of panic. He’s crying, a gross, wet sobbing and his head’s spinning and he can’t stay upright. Peter slides forward, hunching over, coughing and digging his head into the cobblestone.

Drax doesn’t say anything. He forgets Drax is even there. _He’s left you,_ his demon tells him. _He’s left and is never coming back--_

And he’s there. Pulling Peter up by the shoulders, sitting him upright. Drax maneuvers Peter like the flimsy rag doll he is, pulling Peter against his chest, bracketing his arms over Peter’s, locking him into place.

Peter can’t struggle but wants to. He lurches forward as a spasm rips through his body, ankles to knees to hips to ribs to skull, a sudden jerk that makes him gag and sends blades through the base of his skull.

Yet, Drax holds still. He bends one solid arm, runs his hand through Peter’s hair, rocks gingerly to and fro. In his chest, a hum builds, deep and baritone, and Peter feels it through his back.

Peter can feel his senses returning, slowly, as the fear dissipates. The panic bleeds from his body, into Drax’s, doesn’t stand a chance against the man, Drax purifies it with a few simple movements.

Peter exhales. His head falls back against Drax’s shoulder. Everything tense relaxes.

“Don’t leave me,” Peter whispers. His voice catches. He hates how pathetic is sounds.

Drax continues to card through Peter’s hair. “Remain calm, Peter Quill,” Drax nods, and Peter watches from below as Drax scans the surrounding area. “I do not remember the route from here to your ship. I am unable to leave you.”

Peter smiles. The gesture is enough.

 

_Three_

The dream is beautiful. Peter sees his mother. She’s radiant, a heat that shines like the stars. Her eyes are the heavens and her heart is gold, rich and warm. Peter approaches and her smile twitches. Peter begins to speak - “mom, I can’t believe it’s you” - and the light leaves her eyes and he feels the sting of tears as they burn trails down his cheeks.

She pulls away and Peter questions why. Why is she leaving? Why is she pulling away?

A beam of light rips through her skull. It gouges her eye, snakes into her mouth, wraps around her tongue, stifles her screams as it funnels down her throat, pushes through her lungs, freezes her veins, stills her heart--

Peter wakes silently. Wide-eyed and hesitant to breathe, but silent. He turns his head and sees her corpse. Pale, bone-white, milky eyes and graying skin and Peter shrieks and pulls away.

The air hitches in his throat as he realizes it’s his pillow, not his mother. It’s the god damned pillow but his body still seizes and his heart still rattles his ribcage and sends everything into spiraling overdrive.

Groot catches his eye. The potted plant blinks, frowns, and reaches out for Peter from across the room. Peter holds his breath, gets up, avoids even touching the pillow _because that’s a corpse_ and pads across the room until he reaches baby Groot.

“Hey, buddy,” Peter whispers. He squats down in front of the nightstand Groot sits on and folds his arms, hooks his chin over his wrists, sighs, feels the weight of hourless sleep resting heavy on his shoulders.

Groot babbles, bounces and smiles. A small, purplepink flower sprouts from his head and Groot picks it, shows it to Peter. Peter’s hand is so much larger than Groot’s, but he’s careful not to pinch him as he takes the bud.

It smells like lilacs and lilies. Sweet. Summery. Peter begins to melt, his gaze softening and body calming.

“I am Groot,” the flora sprouts another flower, and another. Each one is passed to Peter, and Peter fits them in his hand, puts them in his hair and Groot smiles. It makes Peter feel warmer, less cold like the vacuum of space, more alive.

The feeling is enough.

 

_Four_

Peter stiffens at their screams.

The mission went sour, their bounty murdered the hostages, and as Gamora and Peter stand in the metal hallway of the monster’s dwelling, the peoples’ cries of fear and pain echo. Reverberate off the walls and floors, ringing down the tunnels, sounding less human and more animal.

Peter tenses and keels over. His muscles spasm and he chokes up whatever food he had eaten before the mission, acrid and bitter and tasting _too much like deaththeyalldied_ and he’s jerking backward before he can stop himself.

He staggers away from the sick and Gamora runs forward, catches his wrists in her grip, tries to get him to focus on her, look down at her, but he sees black and white. His stare goes through her, through the steel walls. He sees the bodies, shredded and gooey and sticky with muscle and bubbling fat and blood.

Peter leans over and dry heaves. Gamora still has his wrists and they’re sinking to the floor together.

Her mouth moves but nothing reaches his ears. Only their screams. Cries. Pleads and begs and _deadsufferingpainfeardeadsufferingpainfear_. He’s blacking out. The corners of his vision pull away, funnels out, and he can’t hear anything. Feels nothing. Gamora’s fading and--

“Peter.”

No. She hasn’t faded. Not yet. And Peter breathes deep.

“Peter. Stay with me.”

He opens his eyes, didn’t even realized he closed them, he sees her hair to his left, his chin tucked over her shoulder. Gamora leans into him, her hands firm on the back of his head and the center of his shoulders.

“Stay with me,” she whispers. “You’re going to be okay. It’s all right.” Peter nods, swallows thick, and breathes.

“I’m okay.” he assures her.

“You’re okay.” she echoes.

The screams are gone, but the mission remains, and while Peter remembers this, he can’t help but stay still. Remain here. He lifts his arms and wraps them around Gamora. He times his breathing to hers, slow, steady, natural, and his heart keeps rhythm to Gamora’s.

The world evens out, repositions, and Peter relaxes.

“You’re going to be okay.” she says again. “Everything is okay. Just breathe with me. It’s all right.”

Peter believes her. Her words seem to be the only truth. She’s enough.

 

_Five_

He’s alone.

They’ve left him for a grocery run. Peter had elected to stay behind, fix the Milano after a bad run, and they left.

He’s crying, begging for the pain to leave, curled up on the floor. His fingers grip the grating so tight they bleed and he slams his head on the ground as his panic turns into frustration that claws up his throat in a scream.

_They’ve left, you’re alone,_ and Peter shakes his head because _no_ , they didn’t, they’ve gone out. Rocket would come back, sit next to him in the co-pilot’s seat. Drax would laugh too loud, slap Peter’s back, startle the shit out of him but he would stay. Groot would come back - even though he was growing tall and walking freely, roaming the world and taking in all the sights, he cared and would come home. Gamora,

Oh, bless Gamora.

She would save Peter. As she always did.

Peter pictures them. He rolls onto his stomach and to his hands and knees, head hanging, sweat beading on his forehead and rolling into his eyes. He sees them, hears them, feels them.

But it’s not enough.

Peter falls back to the ground, sobbing, breathing too hard too quick and the world spins without moving, throttling him as his throat closes and heart stops and stomach twists into globs.

It’s not enough.

He can’t do this. He can’t _fucking breathe_ and his mind reels _deadtheylefttheyaregonetheywillnevercomebacktheyaregone_ and Peter lets out a strangled whimper. Can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Breathe.”

Gamora. That’s what she had said.

“Stay with me.” Her words sound so clear, even through the haze. “It’s all right.”

Peter rolls onto his back. Squeezes his eyes shut, bites his tongue until it bleeds.

He tries to remember the warmth. Groot brought him warmth. Happiness. The flowers. Peter opens his eyes. Groot’s vines weave throughout the entire ship, overhead, on walls, through vents and under doors. He sees the flowers, their purplepink. He smiles. A bit hysterically, a bit crooked, but a smile.

Peter slams his arm against his chest, tries to jumpstart his too-fast heart. Drax’s arm takes place of his own. A steady force, it had held him still, kept him calm. Peter stills his movement, lets his hand rest over his chest, and breathes.

He opens his eyes. Sees Rocket.

Really.

It’s Rocket. Standing over him, frowning but puzzled as well.

“Quill?” He twitches. “What’cha doin’, man?”

Peter takes a breath. “Rocket--?” He exhales. The air becomes clearer.

He hears the others’ footsteps approaching, coming up the stairs to the cockpit. Peter stills, his eyes flutter. Rocket’s expression turns grim. “Hey, you okay?”

Gamora sees him and panics. She runs up the stairs, questions rolling off her tongue instantaneously. “Are you okay?” “What happened?” “Did you hurt yourself?” “Why are you on the floor?”

And Peter simply says, “I’m all right.”

Gamora stills. She sighs and nods. Drax from a distance, still halfway down the steps, but he reaches out and wraps a hand over Peter’s wrist. Pats him a few times.

Groot watches at his feet. Doesn’t touch. Doesn’t speak. Only listens. The vines continue to grow from his body, flowers popping from his head and arms and legs and feet.

Peter closes his eyes. He’s suddenly exhausted. But his team is with him, watching over him, and that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried writing in third-person present-tense. I usually write in past-tense, so this was a bit of an experiment. I've been told that, when writing in present-tense, my prose can get a bit wobbly and confusing as opposed to my past-tense. But we'll see.
> 
> This is also un-beta'd and read through once because I'm a lazy motherfucker.
> 
> As a person who suffers from anxiety, I tried to write this as true to the real thing as possible. For me, at least. And all these scenarios are generally what have happened to me. Yeah, I'm a little wimpy, but whatever. I'm extremely grateful to have such good friends and such a sturdy support network to help me out when I have my little "episodes". And I thought - well, I think Peter needs that reassurance too. Especially after what happened in Volume II.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the read.
> 
> \--Lee


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